To him the aged Secord tells,

With many a fervid glow,

How, by her means, Fitzgibbon struck

His great historic blow.

Nor deem it ye, as many do,

A weak and idle thing

That, at that moment Laura loved

The praises of a king;

And dwelt on his approving smile,

And kissed his royal hand,

Who represented, and should wield,

The sceptre of our land;

For where should greatness fire her torch,

If not at greatness' shrine?

And whence should approbation come

Did not the gods incline?

VII.

And when, from o'er the parting seas,

A royal letter came,

And brought a gift to recognize

Brave Laura Secord's fame.

What wonder that her kindling eye

Should fade, suffused in tears?

What wonder that her heart should glow,

Oblivious of the years?

And honour ye the kindly grace

Of him who still hath been

In all things kindly, and the praise

Of our beloved Queen.

THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE,

JUNE 21ST, 1887.

A Jubilee! A Jubilee!

Waft the glad shout across the laughing sea!

A Jubilee! A Jubilee! O bells

Ring out our gladness on your merry peals!

O thou, the root and flower of this our joy,

Well may thy praise our grateful hearts employ!

Fair as the moon and glorious as the sun,

Thy fame to many a future age shall run.

"I WILL BE GOOD." 'Twas thus thy judgment spake,

When, greatness would allure for greatness' sake.

Thou _hast_ been good: herein thy strength hath lain;

And not thine only, it hath been our gain:

Nor ours alone, for every people's voice,

Because thou hast been good, doth now rejoice.

Beneath the shelter of that fruitful vine--

Thy goodness--hath pure Virtue reared her shrine.

Freedom hath lift her flag, and flung it free,

Rejoicing in a god-like liberty.

Truth hath her gracious lineaments revealed

To humble souls, beneath Victoria's shield.

Mercy, whose message bore thy first command,

Hath carried festival to every land.

Justice hath worn his robes unsmirched of gold;

Nor longer strikes in vengeance, as of old.

Kind Pity, wheresoe'er the tried might be,

Widow, and babe, hath borne a balm from thee.

Valour hath drawn his sword with surer aim:

And Peace hath signed her treaties in thy name.

Honour hath worn his plumes with nobler grace:

And Piety pursued her readier race.

Learning hath pressed where ne'er she walked before:

And Science touched on realms undreamt of yore.

Commerce hath spread wide wings o'er land and sea,

And spoken nations glorious yet to be.

Before the light of Temperance' purer grace.

Excess hath veiled his spoiled and purpled face.

And never since the peopled world began

Saw it so strong the brotherhood of man.

Great glory thus hath gathered round thy name,--

VICTORIA. QUEEN. Goodness hath been thy fame,

And greatness shall be, for the twain are one:

As thy clear eye discerned ere rule begun.

O Queen, receive anew our homage free:

Our love and praise on this thy Jubilee.

THE HERO OF ST. HELEN'S ISLAND.

CANADA'S TRIBUTE TO THE TWENTY-FOURTH (2ND WARWICKSHIRE) REGIMENT.

O the roaring and the thunder!

O the terror and the wonder!

O the surging and the seething of the flood!

O the tumbling and the rushing--

O the grinding and the crushing--

O the plunging and the rearing of the ice!

When the great St. Lawrence River,

With a mighty swell and shiver,

Bursts amain the wintry bonds that hold him fast.

'Twas on an April morning--

And the air was full of warning

Of the havoc and the crash that was to be.--

A deed was done, whose glory

Flames from out the simple story,

Like the living gleam of diamond in the mine.

'Twas where St. Mary's Ferry

In sweet summer makes so merry,

'Twixt St. Helen's fortressed isle and Montreal,

There, on an April morning,--

As if in haughty scorning

Of the tale soft Zephyr told in passing by--

Firm and hard, like road of Roman,

Under team of sturdy yeoman,

Or the guns, the ice lay smooth, and bright, and cold.

And watching its resistance

To the forces in the distance

That nearer and yet nearer ever rolled,

Warning off who tempt the crossing,

All too soon so wildly tossing,

Stood a party of Old England's Twenty-Fourth.

While as yet they gazed in wonder,

Sudden boomed the awful thunder

That proclaimed the mighty conqueror at hand.

O then the fierce uplifting!

The trembling, and the rifting!

The tearing, and the grinding, and the throes!

The chaos and careering,

The toppling and the rearing,

The crashing and the dashing of the floes!

At such an awful minute

A glance,--the horror in it!--

Showed a little maiden midway twixt the shores,

With hands a-clasp and crying.

And, amid the masses, trying,--

Vainly trying--to escape on either hand.

O child so rashly daring!

Who thy dreadful peril sharing

Shall, to save thee, tempt the terrors of the flood

That roaring, leaping, swirling,

And continuously whirling,

Threats to whelm in frightful deeps thy tender form!

The helpless soldiers, standing

On a small precarious landing,

Think of nothing but the child and her despair,

When a voice as from the Highest,--

To the child he being nighest--

Falls _"Quick-march!"_ upon the ear of Sergeant Neill.

O blessed sense of duty!

As on banderole of duty

His unswerving eye he fixes on the child;

And straight o'er floe and fissure,

Fragments yielding to his pressure,

Toppling berg, and giddy block, he takes his way;

Sometimes climbing, sometimes crawling.

Sometimes leaping, sometimes falling,

Till at last he stands where cowers the weeping child.

Then with all a victor's bearing.

As in warlike honours sharing,

With the child all closely clasped upon his breast,

O'er floe and hummock taking

Any step for safety making,

On he goes, till they who watch can see no more.

For both glass and light are failing.

As the ice-pack, slowly sailing,

Bears him onward past the shore of far Longueil.

"Lost!" his comrades cry, and turning.

Eyes cast down, and bosoms burning,

Gain the shelter of their quiet barrack home;

Where, all night, the tortured father

Clasps the agonizing mother.

In the mute embrace of hopelessness and dread.

O the rapid alternations

When the loud reverberations

Of the evening gun boom forth the hour of rest!

The suffering and the sorrow!

The praying for the morrow!

The fears, the hopes, that tear the parents breasts!

And many a word is spoken

At the mess, so sadly broken,

Of the men who mourn their comrade brave and true

And many a tear-drop glistens,

Where a watching mother listens

To the tumult of the ice along the shore.

And ever creeping nearer,

Children hold each other dearer,

In the gaps of slumber broken by its roar.

Twice broke the rosy dawning

Of a sunny April morning,

And Hope had drooped her failing wings, to die;

When o'er the swelling river,

Like an arrow from a quiver,

Came the news of rescue, safety, glad return;

And the mother, as from Heaven,

Clasped her treasure, newly-given;

And the father wrung the hand of Sergeant Neill:

Who shrunk from their caressing,

Nor looked for praise or blessing,

But straight returned to duty and his post.

And this the grateful story,

To others' praise and glory,

That the Sergeant told his comrades round the fire.

"Far down the swelling river,

To the ocean flowing ever,

With its teeming life of porpoise, fish, and seal,

There hardy, brave, and daring,

Dwells the _habitant_; nor caring

Save to make his frugal living by his skill.

Nor heeds he of the weather,

For scale, and fur, and feather,

Lay their tribute in his hand the year around.

On the sunny April morning,

That the ice had given warning

Of the havoc and the crash that was to be,

Stood Pierre, Louis, gazing,

Their prayers to Mary raising,

For a season full of bounty from the sea.

And when the light was failing,

And the ice-pack, slowly-sailing,

Crashing, tumbling, roaring, thundering, passed them by,

Their quick eye saw with wonder,

On the masses torn asunder,

An unfortunate who drifted to his doom.

"O then the exclamations!

The rapid preparations!

The launching of canoes upon the wave!

The signalling and shouting!--

Death and disaster flouting--

The anxious haste, the strife, a human life to save

Across the boiling surges,

Each man his light bark urges,

Though death is in the error of a stroke;

And paddling, poising, drifting,

O'er the floes the light shell lifting,

The gallant fellows reach the whirling pack:

And from the frightful danger,

They save the worn-out stranger.

And oh, to see the nursling in his arms!

And oh, the pious caring,

The sweet and tender faring,

From the gentle hands of Marie and Louise!

And the pretty, smiling faces,

As the travellers take their places

To return again to those who weep their loss.

And the Sergeant's story ending,

His head in rev'rence bending,

He cried "God bless for ever all noble souls like these!"

But cheer on cheer resounded,

Till the officers, astounded

At their mess, upon their sword-hilts clapped their hands.

And the plaudits rose still higher,

When they joined with martial fire,

In the cry "God bless the Twenty-Fourth, and its gallant Sergeant Neill!"

OCTOBER 13TH, 1872.

A PLEA FOR THE VETERANS OF 1812.

Forget not, Canada, the men who gave,

In fierce and bloody fray, their lives for thine.

Pause thou, Ontario, in thy forward march,

And give a tear to those who, long ago,

On this day fell upon those Heights where now

Their ashes rest beneath memorial pile.

And while those names, BROCK and MACDONELL, wake

A throb of emulative gratitude

And patriotic fervour in thy breast,

Forget not those--"the boys," the nameless ones,--

Who also fought and fell on that October day;

Nameless their ashes, but their memories dear!

Remember, too,

Those grandsires at thy hearths who linger still;

Whose youthful arms then helped to guard thy peace,

Thy peace their own. And ere they go to join

Their ancient comrades of the hard-won fight,

Glad their brave hearts with one applauding cheer

In memory of the day. Comfort their age

With plenty. Let them find that sturdy youth,

Whose heritage they saved, bows rev'rent head,

And lends a strong right arm to ancient men,

Whose deeds of patriot prowess deck the silk

That waves so proudly from the nation's towers.

LOYAL.

"The Loyalists having sacrificed their property to their politics,

were generally poor, and had to work hard and suffer many privations

before they could reap crops to support their families. In those

early days there were no merchants, no bakeries, no butchers' shop's,

no medical men to relieve the fevered brain or soothe a mother's

aching heart, no public house, no minister to console the dying or

bury the dead, no means of instruction for the young; all was bush,

hard labour and pinching privation for the present, and long toil for

the rising generations."

REV. G. A. ANDERSON,

_Protestant Chaplain to the Reformatory, Penetanguishene_.

O Ye, who with your blood and sweat

Watered the furrows of this land,--

See where upon a nation's brow

In honour's front, ye proudly stand!

Who for her pride abased your own,

And gladly on her altar laid

All bounty of the older world,

All memories that your glory made.

And to her service bowed your strength,

Took labour for your shield and crest;

See where upon a nation's brow

Her diadem, ye proudly test!

ON QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.

I stood on Queenston Heights;

And as I gazed from tomb to cenotaph,

From cenotaph to tomb, adown and up,

My heart grew full, much moved with many thoughts.

At length I cried:

"O robed with honour and with glory crowned,

Tell me again the story of yon pile."

And straight the ancient, shuddering cedars wept,

The solemn junipers indued their pall,

The moaning wind crept through the trembling oaks

And, shrieking, fled. Strange clamour filled the air;

The steepy hill shook with the rush of arms;

Around me rolled the tide of sudden war.

The booming guns pealed forth their dreadful knell;

Musketry rattled; shouts, cries, groans, were heard;

Men met as foes, and deadly strife ensued.

From side to side the surging combat rolled,

And as it rolled, passed from my ken.

A silence! On the hill an alien flag

Flies flaunting in the wind, mocking the gun.

Dark forms pour o'er the heights, and Britain's day

Broods dark.

But hark! a ringing cheer peals up the height

Once more the battle's tide bursts on my view.

Brock to the rescue! Down goes the alien flag!

Back, back the dark battalions fall. On, on

The "Tigers" come. Down pours the rattling shot

From out the verdant grove, like sheets of hail.

Up, up they press, York volunteers and all.

Aha! the day is ours! See, where the hero comes

In conquering might, quick driving all before him!

O brave ensample! O beloved chief!

Who follows thee keeps ever pace with honour.

Shout Victory! Proud victory is ours!

Ours, noble Brock!

Ours? DEATH'S! _Death wins;_ THE DAY IS HIS.

Ah! shudder still ye darkling cedars,

Chant yet your doleful monotone, ye winds;

Indue again your grey funereal pall,

Ye solemn junipers; for here he fell,

And here he lies,--dust; ashes; nothing.

Such tale the hill-side told me, and I wept.

Nay! I wept _not!_ The hot, indignant thoughts

That filled my breast burned up the welling tears

Ere they had chance to flow, and forward Hate

Spake rashly. But calm Reflection

Laid her cool hand upon my throbbing brow

And whispered, "As up the misty stream

The _Norseman_ crept to-day, and signals white

Waved kind salutes from yon opposing shore;

And as ye peered the dusky vista through,

To catch first glimpse of yonder glorious plinth,

Yet saw it not till _I_ your glance directed,--

So high it towered above the common plane;--

So, towering over Time, shall Brock e'er stand.--

So, from those banks, shall white-robed Peace e'er smile.

_October 12, 1881_.

NEW ORLEANS, MONROE, MAYOR, APRIL 29, 1862.

* * * * *

THE HAULING DOWN OF THE STATE FLAG FROM OVER THE CITY HALL.

"The crowd flowed in from every direction and filled the street

in a compact mass both above and below the square. They were silent,

but angry and threatening. An open way was left in front of the hall,

and their force being stationed, Captain Bell and Lieutenant Kantz

passed across the street, mounted the hall steps and entered the

Mayor's parlour. Approaching the Mayor, Captain Bell said: "I have

come in obedience to orders to haul down the State flag from this

building." ... As soon as the two officers left the room Mr. Monroe

also went out. Descending the front steps he walked out into the

street, and placed himself immediately in front of the howitzer

pointing down St. Charles Street. There, folding his arms, he fixed

his eyes upon the gunner who stood, lanyard in hand, ready for action.

Here he remained without once looking up or moving, until the flag

had been hauled down by Lieutenant Kantz, and he and Captain Bell

reappeared.... As they passed out through the Camp Street gate,

Mr. Monroe turned towards the hall, and the people, who had hitherto

preserved the silence he had asked from them, broke into cheers for

their Mayor."

MARION A. BAKER, _in July (1886) Century_.

A noble man! a man deserving trust.

A man in whom the higher elements

Worked freely. A man of dignity;

On whom the robes and badge of state sat well

Because the majesty of self-control,

And all its grace, were his.

I see him now--

Pale with the pallor of a full, proud heart--

Descend those steps and take his imminent place

Before the deadly piece, as who should say

"'Ware ye! these people are my people; such

Their inward heat and mine at this poor deed

That scarce we can control our kindled blood.

But should ye mow them down, ye mow me too.

'Ware ye!"

O men for whose dear sake he stood

An offering and a hostage; on that scroll

Old Chronos doth unfold along the years

Are writ in gold names of undaunted Mayors,

Pepin and Charlemagne, and Whittington

And White. Did not your fathers know them?

And shall not he, your Mayor of 'Sixty-two,

Monroe, stand side by side with them?

THE EMIGRANT'S SONG.

I.

No work, no home, no wealth have I,

But Mary loves me true,

And, for her sake, upon my knees

I'd beg the wide world through:

For her sweet eyes look into mine

With fondness soft and deep;

My heart's entranced, and I could die

Were death a conscious sleep.

II.

But life is work, and work is life,

And life's the way to heaven,

And hand-in-hand we'd like to go

The road that God has given.

And England, dear old Motherland,

Has plenty mouths to feed

Without her sons and daughters fair,

Whose strength is as their need.

III.

To Canada! To Canada!

To that fair land I'll roam,

And till the soil with heart of grace,

For Mary and a home.

Hurrah for love! Hurrah for hope!

Hurrah for industry!

Hurrah for bonnie Canada,

And her bonnie maple tree!

TO THE INDIAN SUMMER.

And art thou come again, sweet Indian maid!

How beautiful thou art where thou dost stand,

With step arrested, on the bridge that joins

The Past and Future--thy one hand waving

Farewell to Summer, whose fond kiss hath set

Thy yellow cheeks aglow, the other stretched

To greet advancing Winter!

Nor can thy veil, tissue diaphanous

Of crimsoned haze, conceal thy lustrous eyes;--

Those eyes in whose dark depths a tear-drop lurks

Ready to fall, for Beauty loved and lost.

From thy point gazing, maiden, let us, too,

Once more behold the panorama fair

Of the lost year. See where, far down yon slope

That meets the sun, doth quick advance gay Spring,

His dainty fingers filled with swelling buds:

O'er his wreathed head, among the enlacing trees,

The merry birds flit in and out, to choose

A happy resting-place; and singing rills

Dwell on his praise. Gladly his laughing eyes

Rest on fair Summer's zone set thick with flowers,

That chide their own profusion as, tiptoe,

And arm outstretched, she reaches to restore

The fallen nestling, venturous and weak:

While many a nursling claims her tender care.

Beneath her smile all Nature doth rejoice,

And breaks into a song that sweeps the plain

Where now the swarthy Autumn, girded close,

Gathers his yellow sheaves and juicy fruit

To overflowing garners; measure full,

And blest to grateful souls. Through the low air

A myriad wings circle in restless sort;

And from the rustling woods there comes a sound

Of dropping nuts and acorns--welcome store

To little chipmunk and to squirrel blithe:

Dependants small on Nature's wide largesse.

How doth the enchanting picture fill our souls

With faith! Sweet Indian maid, we turn with thee

And greet gray Winter with a trustful smile.

IN JUNE.

I cannot sleep, and morning's earliest light,

All soft and rosy, tempts my restlessness

To ask from Nature what of peace she gives.

I gaze abroad, and all my soul is moved

At that strange calm that floats o'er earth at rest.

The silver sickle of the summer moon

Hangs on the purple east. The morning star,

Like a late watcher's lamp, pales in the dawn.

Yonder, the lake, that 'neath the midday sun

All restless glows and burns like burnished shield,

Lies as a child at rest with curtain drawn.

The forest trees are still. The babbling creek

Flows softly through the copse and glides away;

And the fair flowers, that lie as thick and sweet

As posies at a bridal, sleep quietly.

No early breeze his perfumed wings unfolds.

No painted butterfly to pleasure wakes.

The bees, whose busy hum pervades the hours

Through all the sultry day, keep yet the hive.

And, save the swallow, whose long line of works

Beneath each gable, points to labours vast,

No bird yet stirs. Upon the dewy mead

The kine repose; the active horse lies prone;

And the white ewes doze o'er their tender lambs,

Like village mothers with their babes at breast.

So still, so fair, so calm, the morning broods,

That, while I know the gairish day will come,

And bring its clouds of gnat-like stinging cares,

Rest steals into my heart, and gentle peace.

LIVINGSTONE.

OBIT MAY 1ST, 1883.

Sleep now and take thy rest, thou mighty dead!

Thy work is done--thy grand and glorious work.

Not "Caput Nili" shall thy trophy be.

But _broken slave-sticks and a riven chain_.

As the man Moses, thy great prototype,

Snatched, by the hand of God, his groaning millions

From out the greedy clutch of Egypt's despot;

So hast thou done for Afric's toiling sons:

Hast snatched its peoples from the poisonous fangs

Of hissing Satan, veiled in commerce foul.

For this thy fame shall ring; for this thy praise

Shall be in every mouth for ever. Ay,

Thy true human heart hath here its guerdon--

A continent redeemed from slavery.--

To this, how small the other! Yet 'twas great.

Ah, not in vain those long delays, those groans

Wrung from thy patient soul by obstacle,

The work of peevish man; these were the checks

From that Hand guiding, that led thee all the way.

_He_ willed thy soul should vex at tyranny;

Thine ear should ring with murdered women's shrieks,

That torturing famine should thy footsteps clog;

That captive's broken hearts should ache thine own.

And Slavery--that villain plausible--

That thief Gehazi!--He stripped before thine eyes

And showed him all a leper, foul, accursed.

_He_ touched thy lips, and every word of thine

Vibrates on chords whose deep electric thrill

Shall never cease till that wide wound be healed.

And then He took thee home. Ay, home, great heart!

Home to _His_ home, where never envious tongue,

Nor vile detraction, nor base ingratitude,

Nor cold neglect, shall sting the quiv'ring heart.

Thou endedst well. One step from earth to Heaven,

When His voice called "Friend, come up higher."

ON SEEING THE ENGRAVING

"THE FIRST VISIT OF QUEEN VICTORIA TO HER WOUNDED

SOLDIERS ON THEIR RETURN FROM THE CRIMEA."

Yes, go to them, the brave, the tried, the hurt--

'Tis very fitting so! _We_ cannot go--

Some scores of million souls--to tell them all

We think and feel:

To ease the burden of our laden hearts;

To give the warm grasp of our British hands

In strong assurance of our praise and love;

Of our deep gratitude, to them, our friends,

Our _brothers_, who for us toiled, suffered, bled:

And left, as we, their dead upon the field,

Their comrades tried and true, around Scutari.

Go to them, then, dear Queen,'tis very fitting so!

_Thy_ hand can clasp for _ours. Thy_ voice express

_Our_ hearts.

We send thee as our _best_, as so we ought;

We send thee as our _dearest_, as thou art;

We send thee our _elect_, perfect to fill

The office thou hast chosen for our sakes.

A gentle woman thou, and therefore tender:--

A loving wife, and therefore sympathetic:--

A mother, thou, and therefore patient:--

Is there a son among those wounded men

Has made his mother sad? Thy tear will soften him.

Is there a husband kept from wife and bairns?

Thy smile will comfort him.

Is there a lonely one with none to love?

He'll warm beneath thy glance, his dear Queen's glance;

And--soldiers all--they'll all forget their pains,

And long to fight again, even to fall, for thee.

And if for thee, for us; us, who would clasp

Their thin worn hands in ours, and smile our thanks,

And speak our praise of them, and heal their wounds

With gentlest care, each, for himself, if so

We might thus ease our o'er-full hearts.

Yet happy are we still in this, nay, happier,--

Thou being that _our best; our dearest;_

_Our elect; perfect epitome_

_Of all we would_--that thou dost go to them.

_Great Western Hotel, Liverpool, June 9, 1880_.

TO A CHILD

SINGING "JESUS LOVES ME, THIS I KNOW."

Sing, little darling, sing,

And may thy song be everlasting!

Not all the learning wits and sages boast

Can equal the sweet burden of thy song;--

Can yield such rest amid life's noisiest strife;--

Such peace to still the spirit's wildest wars;--

Such hope to stem the most tumultuous wave

May threat to overwhelm.

The love of Jesus,--

Sweet, having this thou risest far above

All this world's clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven.

Did He who blest

That infant band that crowded round His knee,

See, in a face like thine, a tender memory

Of that dear home He left for our sakes?

It may be; nay, it must: "Of such," He said,

"My Father's kingdom." And His great heart

Went out in fondest tones: His soft embrace

Encircling such as thou, thrilled out that love

That vibrates yet, and still enfolds so warm

His tender lambs.

Sing, little darling, sing,

And may thy song be everlasting.

HOME.

The morning sun shone soft and bright,

The air was pure and clear,

My steady steps fell quick and light,

Nor knew my soul a fear.

For though the way was long and cold,

The end I knew not where,

Hope's vivid pictures made me bold

To wait, or do, or dare.

But ah, the change when evening gray

Curtained a cloudy sky,

And languid, I retraced the way

My feet could scarce descry!

By rugged care my heart was bruised,

Hope's rainbow tints were gone;

To this world's watch and ward unused,

I could but stumble on.

The rough wind's breath, the dark sky's frown

Fell like the stroke of wrath,

When--from above a star looked down--

A ray beamed on my path.

The light of Home--oh, blessed light--

To weary wanderers dear!

The light of Heaven, oh, glorious light

To souls that stumble here!

What matters now the weary road,

My toil shall soon be o'er;

And, oh, at last, at home with God

Life's cares shall cark no more.

Be this my hope! Be this my aim!

Though rough the road may be,

Thy feet, blest Jesus, trod the same,

And I would follow Thee.

LOST WITH HIS BOAT.

Alone--alone! I sit, and make my moan.

The fire burns low, the candle flickers dim.

Alone--alone! I rock, and think of him.

Of him who left me in the purple pride

Of early manhood. _Yestermorn_ he went.

The sun shone bright, and scintillant the tide.

O'er which the sea-mew swept, with dewy drops besprent.

Before he went he kissed me; and I watched

His boat that lay so still and stately, till

Automaton she seemed, and that she moved

To where she willed of her own force and law.

But I knew better: _his_ was the will

That set the pretty sprite a-going.

His arms controlled her to obedience:

Those arms that lately clasped me.

No alarms

Chilled my fond heart, nor dimmed my vision.

As I saw the fair white messenger move off

On fleecy puffs of cloud into the blue;

My nearest thought to trim my hearth, and make,

A dainty dish would please my darling's taste

On his return. And all day long, and through

The dreamy summer day, my thoughts were full

Of many a gay return; my ears reheard

The cheery word and joke were wont to mark them.

Nor when the sun went down in wrack and mist--

A mist that gathers who knows how or where?--

Feared I of aught. My little hearth burned bright.

The kettle sang, and pussy purred and napped;

And--rocking to and fro, as I do now,

I hummed a little song; one _he_, had sung

In other days, and with the manly tones

Had stolen my heart away.

The hearth burned low; I ate my meal alone,

And something like a fear I chased away,

Despite the deepening surges of the wind

That scurried round our cot.

I slept: and waked

What time the summer storm, that rose and fell

In sullen gusts, flew by; and slept again,

And dreamed a glad return. When morning broke

A glorious day begun. The storm was gone:

The sparkling waves toyed with the lilting breeze;

The merry sun shone bright; and all the blue

Was decked with tiny flecks of feathery white.

A gladsome morn! But I, I missed my love.

_And now they say he's dead_. Lost, with his boat,

In that short summer storm of yesternight.

Lost! _lost_! my love is lost! No more may I

Welcome his step, hear his glad voice, and kiss

His laughing lips. I may not even clasp

His cold dead form in one long, last embrace!

And here I sit alone.--

I drove them all away, their words but maddened me.

Alone I sit,

And rock, and think,--I cannot weep--

And conjure up the depths, those cruel depths

That chafe and fret, and roll him to and fro

Like a stray log:--he, whose dear limbs should lie

Peaceful and soft, in rev'rent care bestowed.--

Or in the sunken boat, gulfed at his work,

I see his blackened corse, even in death

Faithful to duty. O that those waves,

That with their gentle lullaby mock my wild woe,

Would rise in all their might and 'whelm me too!

Oh, love!--oh, love!--my love!

LIFE IN DEATH.

On her pale bier the baby lay,

And healthy children from their play,

With tip-toe awe and bated breath,

Came gently in to look on Death.

One touched the flowers that decked the bier;

Another dropped a little tear;

One stroked the cheek so waxy white;

And one cowered weeping with affright.

But one fair boy won Life from Death

By that quick faith that childhood hath;

And cried, with gaze past present things,

"P'raps baby's trying her new wings."

INVOCATION TO RAIN.

MAY, 1874.

O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King,

Where dost thou stay so long? Our sad hearts pine,

Our spirits faint, for thee. Our weary eyes

Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud

Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn

Or East or West, no vap'rous haze, nor view

Of distant panorama, wins our souls

To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant.

Thy brother Spring is come.

His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray--

The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee.

Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves

Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds

Of feathery fern, in strewing o'er his path;

The dielytra puts her necklace on,

Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose.

Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass

Grows up in single blades and braves the sun.

But thou!--O, where art thou, sweet early Rain,

That with thy free libations fill'st our cup?

The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note

From off the ridge cap, but can find no spot

Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence

Explores the pasture with his piercing eye,

And visits oft the bushes by the stream,

But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuft

Are there to hide a home. Oh what is earth

Without a home? On the dry garden bed,

The sparrow--the little immigrant bird--

Hops quick, and looks askance,

And pecks, and chirps, asking for kindly crumbs--

Just two or three to feed his little mate:

Then, on return from some small cunning nook

Where he has hidden her, he mounts the wires,

Or garden fence, and sings a happy song

Of home, and other days. A-missing thee

The husbandman goes forth with faltering step

And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard

The lab'ring plough, but the dry earth falls back

As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs

The plough-boy's feet with rich encumb'ring mould.

The willows have a little tender green.

And swallows cross the creek--the gurgling creek

Now fallen to pools--but, disappointed,

Dart away so swift, and fly so high

We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land

Doth mourn for thee.

Ah! here thou comest--sweet Rain.

Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!

See now, what transformation in thy touch!

Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees

Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms

From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift

Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white

As angel's raiment. Little wood children

Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth

Offers rich gifts. The little choristers

Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman

Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake

And mingle with the swift roulade of streams.

The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing

Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in

The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads

From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!"

And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms;

And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks:

And hear the plover whistling in the fields.

And little children dream of daisy chains;

And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday;

A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers.

O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain!

Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become

Like that Great Heart, whose almoner art thou.

REMONSTRANCE WITH "REMONSTRANCE."

(IN "CANADIAN MONTHLY," APRIL, 1874.)

Why now, sweet Alice, though thy numbers ring

Like silver bells, methinks their burden wrong.

For if 'tis right, then were the hermits right,

And all recluses. And He was wrong

Who gave to Adam, Eve: and leaned upon

The breast of John the loved. So was He wrong

To love the gentle home at Bethany.

The sisters, and their brother Lazarus.

So was He wrong to weep at Lazarus' grave,

Pity's hot tears for Sin, and Death, and Woe.

And in that awful hour when manhood failed

And God forsook, He still was wrong to think

With tenderest solicitude and care

Upon his mother, and leave her in the charge

Of John. And He was wrong who gave us hearts

To yearn, and sensibilities to meet

Those "clinging tendrils" thou wouldst have us cut.

If thou art right, sweet Alice,

There were no ties of infancy, or age;

Of consanguinity: or noble bond

Of wide humanity, or sacred home:

For without love,--e'en our poor earthly love,--

The world were dead.

Love is the silver cord, that, being loosed,

The fabric of humanity falls wide

In hopeless wrack. Well for us it is

That when our nature, hurt, falls, shrieking, down,

The Great Physician's hand may raise it up

And bind the wound. But what mad folly 'twere

Did we, like peevish child, beat down the hand,

And tear afresh the wound. And this we do

When of our morbid selves we idols make,

And cry "No sorrow like to mine."

O rather should we turn our tenderer hearts--

Made gentler by our griefs--to gentle cares

For weak Humanity, and, knowing what woe

Our sinful nature brings upon itself,

With God-like pity love it but the more.

THE ABSENT ONES.

How I miss their faces!

Faces that I love.

Where I read the traces

Heart and soul approve.

Traces of their father

Scattered here and there;

Here a little gesture,

There a twist of hair.

Brave and generous Bertie,

Sweet and quiet Fred,

Tender-hearted Jackie,

Various, but true-bred.

How I miss their voices

Raised in laughter gay;

And in loving blessing

When they go to pray.

Even of their quarrels

Miss I now the noise,

Angry or disdainful,

(What are they but boys?)

Shouting in the garden,

Spurring on the game,

Calling a companion

By some favourite name.

How I miss the footsteps,

Lightsome, loud, or slow;

Telling by their echo

How the humours go.

Lagging when they're lazy.

Running when they're wild.

Leaping when they're gladsome,

Walking when they're mild.

Footsteps, voices, faces,

Where are ye to-night?

Father, keep my darlings

Ever in Thy sight.

AWAY.

Oh, where are all the madcaps gone?

Why is the house so drear and lone?

No merry whistle wakes the day,

Nor evening rings with jocund play.

No clanging bell, with hasty din,

Precedes the shout, "Is Bertie in?"

Or "Where is Fred?" "Can I see Jack?"

"How soon will he be coming back?

Or "Georgie asks may I go out,"

He has a treasure just found out."

The wood lies out in all the rain,

No willing arms to load are fain

The weeds grow thick among the flowers,

And make the best of sunny hours;

The drums are silent; fifes are mute;

No tones are raised in high dispute;

No hearty laughter's cheerful sound

Announces fun and frolic round.

Here's comic Alan's wit wants sport;

And dark-eyed Bessie's quick retort

Is spent on Nellie, mild and sweet;

And dulness reigns along the street.

The table's lessened numbers bring

No warm discussion's changeful ring,

Of hard-won goal, or slashing play,

Or colours blue, or brown, or gray.

The chairs stand round like rows of pins;

No hoops entrap unwary shins;

No marbles--boyhood's gems--roll loose;

And stilts may rust for want of use;

No book-bags lie upon the stairs;

Nor nails inflict three-cornered tears.

Mamma may lay her needle down,

And take her time to go up town;

Albeit, returning she may miss

The greeting smile and meeting kiss.

But hark! what message cleaves the air.

From skies where roams the Greater Bear!

"Safe, well, and happy, here are we,

Wild as young colts and just as free!

With plenteous hand and kindly heart,

Our hosts fulfil a liberal part.

Nor lack we food to suit the mind,

Our alma-mater here we find,

And in her agricultural school

We learn to farm by modern rule;

Professor Walter fills the chair,

But teaches in the open air.

And by his side we tend the stock,

Or swing the scythe, or bind the shock.

Nor miss we academic lore,

We walk where Plato walked before,

And eloquent Demosthenes,

Who taught their youth beneath the trees;

Here with sharp eyes we love to scan

The rules that point Dame Nature's plan,

We mark the track of bear and deer,

And long to see them reft of fear.--

Though well they shun our changeful moods,

Taught by our rifle in the woods.

Yet we may tell of mercy shown,

Power unabused, the birdling flown,--

When caught by thistly gossamer--

Set free to wing the ambient air.

Cautious we watch the gliding snake,

'Neath sheltering stone, or tangled brake,

And list the chipmunk's merry trill

Proclaim his wondrous climbing skill.

The bird; the beast; the insect; all

In turn our various tastes enthrall;

The fish; the rock; the tree; the flower;

Yield to quick observation's power.

And many a treasure swells our store

Of joys for days when youth is o'er.

Our glowing limbs we love to lave

Beneath the lake's translucent wave,

Or on its heaving bosom ride

In merry boat; or skilful guide

The light canoe, with balanced oar,

To yonder islet's pebbly shore.

Sometimes, with rod and line, we try

The bass's appetite for fly;

Well pleased if plunge or sudden dart

Try all our piscatorial art;

And shout with joy to see our catch

Prove bigger than we thought our match.

Oft when the ardent sun at noon

Proclaims his power, we hide full soon

Within the cool of shady grove,

Or, gathering berries slowly rove

And often when the sun goes down,

We muse of home, and you in town;

And had we but a carrier dove

We'd send her home with loads of love."

POOR JOE.

He cannot dance, you say, nor sing,

Nor troll a lilting stave;

And when the rest are cracking jokes

He's silent as the grave.

Poor Joe! I know he cannot sing--

His voice is somewhat harsh:

But he can whistle loud and clear

As plover in the marsh.

Nor does he dance, but he would walk

Long miles to serve a friend,

And though he cares not crack a joke,

He will the truth defend.

And so, though he for company

May not be much inclined,

I love poor Joe, and think his home

Will be just to my mind.

FRAGMENTS.

* * * * *

"I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR."

A happy year, sweet as the breath of flowers:

A merry year, glad as the song of birds,

A jocund year, gay as brown harvest hours;

A prosperous year, rich, as in flocks and herds.

* * * * *

THE LIFE-BOAT MAN.

When the loud minute gun alarms the night,

And plunging waters hide the bark from sight,

When lurid lightnings threat, and thunders roll.

And roaring tempests daunt the trembling soul--

'Tis thine, O Life-boat Man, such fears to brave,

And snatch the drowning from a watery grave.

* * * * *

"I am learning the stitch," the lover said

As over her work he bent his head.

But the scene spake plain to the mother's eye

"I am watching these busy fingers ply."

And ever anon when a stitch she'd miss,

'Twas because he bent lower her hand to kiss.

Oh tender lover, and busy maid,

May the sweet enchantment never fade;

Nor the thread of life, though a stitch may miss,

Know a break that may not be joined by a kiss.

* * * * *

THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE.

A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS.

ACT I.

SCENE 1.--_Scugog_.

_The breakfast-room in the house of_ BLOGGS, _a wealthy Scugog

merchant. At the table_, KATE, _his daughter, reading a letter_.

_Kate (in much indignation)_. Refused! I knew it!

The crass ingratitude of haughty man,

Vested in all the pride of place and power,

Brooks not the aspirations of my sex,

However just. Is't that he fears to yield,

Lest from his laurelled brow the wreath should fall

And light on ours? We may matriculate,

And graduate--if we can, but he excludes

Us from the beaten path he takes himself.

The sun-lit heights of steep Parnassus

Reach past the clouds, and we below must stay;

Not that our alpen-stocks are weak, or that

Our breath comes short, but that, forsooth, we wear

The Petticoat. Out on such trash!

_Enter_ MR. BLOGGS.

_Mr. Bloggs_. Why, what's the matter, Kate?

_Kate_. Not much, papa, only I am refused

Admission to the college. _Sapient_ says

The Council have considered my request,

And find it inconsistent with the rules

Of discipline and order to admit

Women within their walls.

_Mr. B_. I thought they'd say so. Now be satisfied;

You've studied hard. Have made your mark upon

The honour list. Have passed your second year.

Let that suffice. You know enough to wed,

And Gilmour there would give his very head

To have you. Get married, Kate.

_Kate_. Papa, you vex me; Gilmour has no chance

And that I'll let him know. Nor have I spent

My youth in studious sort to give up now.

_Mr. Bloggs_. What will you do? They will not let you in,

For fear you'd turn the heads of all the boys.

And quite right, too. I wouldn't have the care

And worry of a lot of lively girls

For all I'm worth.

[_He kisses her_.

_Kate_. P'raps not, papa. But yet I mean to have

The prize I emulate.

If I obtain

The honours hung so tantalizingly

Before us by the University,

Will you defray the cost, as hitherto

You've done, like my own kind papa?

[_She kisses him_.

_Mr. Bloggs_. I guess I'll have to: they won't send the bills to you.

_Kate_. Ah, dear papa! I'll make you proud of me

As if I were a son.

_Enter_ MRS. BLOGGS. _Exit_ MR. BLOGGS.

_Mrs. Bloggs_. My dearest Kate,

How very late

You keep the breakfast things!

_Kate_. My dear mamma,

I had papa

To tell of lots of things.

_Mrs. Bloggs_. Your secret, pray,

If so I may

Be let into it also.

_Kate_. Oh, it was just this letter, mamma, from Mr. Sapient,

telling me that the Council won't let me go to University College to

share the education that can only be had there at a reasonable cost,

because the young men would be demoralized by my presence.

_Mrs. Bloggs_. Kate, I am astonished at you! Have I not always

said that women do not need so much education as men, and ought to keep

themselves _to_ themselves, and not put themselves forward like

impudent minxes? What'll men think of you if you go sittin' down on the

same benches at the colleges, and studyin' off of the same desk, and,

like enough--for there are girls bold enough for that--out of the same

books? And what must the professors think women are comin' to when they

want to learn mathyphysics and metamatics and classical history, and

such stuff as unfits a woman for her place, and makes her as ignorant of

household work, managin' servants, bringin' up children, and such like,

as the greenhorns that some people take from the emigrant sheds, though

I wouldn't be bothered with such ignoramuses, spoilin' the knives, and

burnin' the bread, for anythin'?

_Kate_. Now, mamma, you know we have gone all over this before,

and shall never agree, because I think that the better educated a woman

is, the better she can fulfil her home duties, especially in the care

and management of the health of her family, and the proper training of

her sons and daughters as good citizens.

_Mrs. Bloggs_. You put me out of all patience, Kate! For

goodness' sake get married and be done with it. And that reminds

me that Harry Gilmour wants you to go to the picnic with him on

Dominion Day, and to the concert at the Gardens at night; and he

said you had snubbed him so at Mrs. Gale's that he didn't like to

speak about it to you without I thought he might. Now, that's what

I call a real shame, the way you do treat that young man. A risin'

young lawyer as he is, with no end of lots in Winnipeg, and all the

money his father made for him up there; comes of a good old family,

and has the best connections; as may be a member yet, perhaps senator

some day, and you treat him as if he was quite beneath you. I do hope

you'll just show a little common sense and accept his invitations.

_Kate_. Well, mamma, I think the real shame, as you call it, is

that you, and other ladies, will allow your daughters to go, about to

picnics, parties, balls, theatres or anywhere else, with any man who

happens to ask them, and without even so much as a girl-companion, and

yet you see nothing but impropriety in my desire to attend college,

where all the opportunity of associating with the other sex is limited

to a few lectures delivered by grave and reverend Professors, under

conditions of strict discipline, and at which the whole attention of

the students must necessarily be concentrated on the subject. As for

unlimited opportunities for flirting, there are none; and the

necessities of college life compel each student to attend to his duties

while within the halls, and then go home; wherever that may be.

_Mrs. Bloggs_. It's no use talking, Kate, you won't alter my

opinion. If they'd build another college specially for ladies, as I

hear the Council is willin' to do, and put it under charge of a lady

who would look after the girls, I wouldn't object so much, though, as

I always say, I don't see the need of so much learnin' for women.

_Kate_. Well, mamma, how much would be gained by a separate

building? The Council, it is true, offer a piece of ground, within a

few minutes walk of the college, for a ladies' college, and promise

to deliver lectures specially "altered to suit the female capacity."

But if there was an intention of giddiness and flirtation on the part

of the lady students, how much hindrance do you think the separate

college would be? And if we can't understand the same lectures as our

brothers, it is evident we can't understand the same books. Rather a

hard nut to crack, isn't it?

_Mrs. Bloggs_. How rude you are, Kate! I am ashamed of you.

[_Exit_ MRS. BLOGGS _in a rage_.

_Kate_. Poor mamma, she thinks her only child a very _enfant terrible_.

* * * * *

SCENE 2.--_A lady's bedroom_.

KATE BLOGGS _and her cousin_, ORPHEA BLAGGS, _in conversation_.

_Orphea_. What will you do, dear?

_Kate_. A deed without a name!

A deed will waken me at dead of night!

A deed whose stony face will stare at me

With vile grimace, and freeze my curdling blood!

Will make me quake before the eye of day;

Shrink from the sun; and welcome fearsome night!

A deed will chase my trembling steps by ways

Unknown, through lonely streets, into dark haunts!--

Will make me tremble if a child observes

Me close; and quake, if, in a public crowd,

One glances at me twice!

A deed I'll blush for, yet I'll do't; and charge

Its ugliness on those who forced me to't--

In short, I'll wear the breeks.

_Orphea_. Oh, Katie! You?

_Kate_. Yes, me, dear coz.

_Orphea_. But then your hair, and voice!

_Kate_. I'll train my voice to mouth out short, thick words,

As Bosh! Trash! Fudge! Rot! And I'll cultivate

An Abernethian, self-assertive style,

That men may think there is a deal more in

My solid head than e'er comes out.

My hair I'll cut short off.

[_She looses down her abundant brown hair, and passes her hands

through it caressingly_.

Ah, woman's simple pride! these tresses brown

Must all be shorn. Like to Godiva fair,

Whose heart, so true, forgot itself, to serve

Her suffering kind; I, too, must make

My hair an offering to my sex; a protest strong

'Gainst man's oppression.

Oh, wavy locks, that won my father's praise,

I must be satisfied to cut ye off,

And keep ye in a drawer 'till happier times,

When I again may wear ye as a crown:

Perchance a bang.

_Orphea_. 'Twould, perhaps, be best to wear some as moustache.

_Kate_. The very thing! then whiskers won't be missed.

_Orphea_. But oh, your mannish garb! How dreadful, Kate!

_Kate_. True; but it must be done, and you must help.

[_Exeunt_.

* * * * *

SCENE 3.--_The same room. Evening_.

KATE _alone_.

_Kate_. Not let me in! We'll see. I'll beat 'em yet.

To think that down in Canterbury, girls,

Like my poor self, have had the badge bestowed

That I so fondly covet. To think that they

Enjoy the rights I ask, and have received

The Cambridge University degree, B.A.

Not only wear the gown and cap

As college students, but the hood. The hood!

And shall Macaulay's proud New Zealander

Thus sit on me? Not if I know it. No!

I'll don the dreadful clothes, and cheat the Dons.

[_She goes to the window_.

The blinds are down, the shutters closed, the slats

As well, surely no one can see.

[_She takes up a man's coat and looks at it, then the vest,

then the pants_.

I'll do't!

[_Invests herself in the masculine apparel. A knock at the door.

She starts and turns pale_.

_A Voice_. Katie, dear!

_Kate_. Pshaw! 'tis only Orphea!

[_She unlocks the door_.

(_In masculine tones_.) Come in, dear coz.

[_Attempts to kiss her, but receives a slap in the face_.

_Orphea_. How dare you, sir! Oh! let me out.

_Kate (in natural voice)_. Orphea, you goose!

_Orphea_ Oh, Kate, you did so scare me!

_Kate_. And is it then a good disguise?

_Orphea_. 'Tis poor old Tom again.

_Kate_. But how essay it in the street and hall?

_Orphea_. Well, there's the gown to help. 'Twill cover all.

_Kate_. And then the cap? But that I do not mind;

My Derby hat has used me to a style

A trifle jaunty, and a hard stiff crown;

So if my hair prove not too trying

I yet may like to wear the "mortar-board,"

If still they wear such things.

_Orphea_. Oh, Kate, it is an awful risk!

_Kate_. Awful, my dear; but poor mamma

Thinks I'm an awful girl.

If she but knew--

Yet might I plead that men and women oft

Have done the same before; poor Joan of Arc;

Portia; and Rosalind. And I have heard

That once Achilles donned the woman's garb:

Then why not I the student's cap and gown?

ACT II.

SCENE 1--_A bedroom in a Toronto boarding-house_. KATE BLOGGS _in bed_.

_Enter boarding-house mistress_.

_Kate_. Yes, nursey, I'll be quick, but mind your words

And looks, and do not make mistakes.

_Nurse_. Oh no, Miss Kate--or Mr. Christopher,

As that's the name you've chose, I'll not mistake.

_Kate_. And always mind and keep my room,

My time and liberty, intact, and so

You'll make it easier for me to obtain

By surreptitious means, the rights I should

Enjoy in happier sort.

_Nurse_. I'll do my best, Miss Kate.

[_Exit_ Nurse.

_Kate (in masculine attire, about to descend to the breakfast

table, turns once more to the mirror)_. Oh, Harberton,

Hadst thou but taught the world

The beauty of thy new divided skirt

Ere I was born, this had not now been thus.

This blush, that burns my cheek, had long been past;

These trembling limbs, that blench so from the light,

Had gotten strength to bear me manfully.

Oh for the mantling night, when city fathers

save the gas, and Luna draws her veil!

[_She sits down on a box_.

Away, weak tears!

I must be brave and show myself a man,

Nay, more, a student, rollicking and gay.

Would I could feel so! (_Sniffs at the air_.) Somebody smokes,

And before breakfast; pah, the nasty things!

Would I could smoke! They say some women do;

Drink toddy, too; and I do neither:

That's not like a man; I'll have to learn.

But no! my soul revolts; I'll risk it.

Surely there are among a studious band

Some who love temperance and godly life.

That's the crowd I'll join. They will not plunge into

Those dreadful orgies that the _Globe_ describes,

Of men half-tight with lager and old rye,

Who waylay freshmen and immerse them in

The flowing wave of Taddle,

_Horrors! Why, I shall be a freshman!_

If they touch me I'll scream! ah--ha, I'll scream!

Scream, and betray my sex? No, that won't do;

At Rome I'll have to be a Roman;

And, to escape that dread ordeal, I

Shall cringe and crawl, and in the presence of

A fourth year man step soft and bow,

And smile if he but condescend to nod.

Oh, yes, I'll do't. In tableaux once I played

Uriah Heep, and made the character

So "'umble" and so crawly, that for days

I loathed my hands, and slapped my fingers well

For having knuckles.

Thus will I to the tyrant play the slave.

An old antithesis.

[_Some one calls at the door_.

Yes, yes, I'm coming, Hannah.

Now for that dreaded step yclept the first,

Pray Heaven it may cost most; but that I doubt.

[_Descends to the breakfast table_.

ACT III.

SCENE 1.--_The same as Scene 2, Act I_.

MISS ORPHEA BLAGGS _solus, reading a letter_.

_Orphea (reading)_--

"My Dearest Orphea--Congratulate me! me, your cousin, Tom Christopher,

M.A., Gold Medallist.--Mathematics, and also Natural Sciences; Honours

in Classics, and Prizeman in German again. You cannot think how queer I

feel with all my blushing honours thick upon me, and more to come.

Tuesday! my dear Orphea, Tuesday! Only think of it, Master of Arts, or

more correctly Mistress of Arts! Now let the New Zealanders boast, and

the Cambridge girls bite their tongues, Canada has caught them up! Ah,

my dear Orphea, that is the drop of gall in the cup of your successful

cousin--the Canterbury Antipodeans got their honours _first_. It

reminds me of the saying that the nearer to church the farther from

heaven, since it is evidently the nearer to the centre of civilization

the farther from a University Degree, so far as we unfortunate women are

concerned. But never mind! I've proved that Canadian girls are equal in

mental power with Canadian boys, and I am only impatient to let the Dons

know it.

"And now, my love, for the conclusion of the two years' farce. It has

cost me a whole week's sleep to sketch a plan by which to declare my sex

in the most becoming manner to my fellow students.

"Do you know, dear, when I look back upon the pleasures of the past two

years--how soon we forget the pain!--I am not inclined to regret the

step rendered necessary by my devotion to my sex, for use has made me

quite at home in the--ah--divided skirt! How many lovely girls have I

danced with through the rosy hours who will never more smile on me as

they were wont to smile! How many flowers of rhetoric have been wasted

on me by the irony of fate! How many _billets-doux_, so perfumed

and pretty, lie in my desk addressed to my nether garment! And how many

mammas have encouraged Mr. Christopher, who will forever taboo Miss

Bloggs! And then the parties and the picnics! Ah, my dear Orphea, what

do I not sacrifice on the altar of my sex. But a truce to regrets.

"I am longing to see the elegant costume in which I shall appear before

the astonished eyes of the multitude as Miss Bloggs, M.A.

"You know my style, the latest out, which I find by the fashion books is

Mignonette trimmed with Chinese Pheasant. Buttons up the back of the

sleeves, with rubies and amethysts. Let the fichu be Eidelweiss; trim

the fan and slippers with the same, and use dandelions and calla lilies

for the bouquets. Not a button less than forty on the gloves, and don't

forget my hair.

"Get yourself up to match by contrast, and come and help me make a

sensation.

"The dinner is on the _tapis_. Webb will be caterer, Sells will

supply the cider; Shapter and Jeffery the Zoedone, and I have entered

into a contract with the Toronto Water Works for pure water on this

occasion only. I have bought up every flower in Toronto, so that if the

tariff does not prevent it, other folks will have to import their own

roses; and I have engaged every boy in the public schools who has

nothing better to do next Saturday to go to Lome Park and bring back as

many maiden-hairs as he can find. Ferns are my craze, as you know, and I

am quite a crank on maiden-hair, which I mean to adopt for my crest with

"If she will, she will," as a motto. Ever your own,

"KATE."

A merry letter truly.

I'll to the dressmaker.

ACT IV.

SCENE 1.--_A boarding-house dining-room richly decorated with flowers

and plants. Twenty gentlemen, among whom is_ Mr. Tom Christopher, _each

accompanying a lady, one of whom is_ Miss Blaggs. _The cloth is drawn,

and dessert is on the table_.

_Mr. Biggs, B.A. (Tor. Univer.), on his feet_.

Ah--ladies and gentlemen, here's to our host,

And rising, as thus, to propose him a toast,

I think of the days which together

In shade, and in sunshine, as chums we have passed,

In love, and esteem, that forever must last,

Let happen what will to the weather.

In short, ladies and gentlemen, I have to propose the everlasting health

and welfare of our host, who should have been our honoured guest but for

that persistent pertinacity he exhibited in the matter, and which he

does himself the injustice to call womanish. But I am sure, ladies and

gentlemen, no one but himself ever accused our esteemed host of being

womanish, and when we look upon the high standing he has achieved in our

University, the honour he confers on his Alma Mater by his scholarly

attainments and the gentlemanly character he has won among all sorts of

students, I am sure, ladies and gentlemen, we should be doing great

injustice to you all were we for one moment to admit that he could be

other than he is, an honour to Toronto University, and a credit to his

sex. I am quite sure the ladies are at this moment envying the happy

woman whom he will at no distant date probably distinguish with his

regard, and it must be satisfactory to ourselves, gentlemen, to know

that it lies in our power, as the incumbents of academic honours, to be

able to bestow that reversion of them on those who, having all the world

at their feet, need not sigh for the fugitive conquests that demand

unceasing toil and an unlimited amount of gas or coal-oil. Ladies and

gentlemen, I call upon you to fill your sparkling glasses to the honour

of our host and college chum, Mr. Tom Christopher. And here's with a

hip, hip, hooray! and hands all round!

_All_.--Hip, hip! Hurrah!

[_Tremendous cheering and clinking of glasses. Several are broken,

and the excitement consequently subsides_.

_Mr. Tom Christopher_.--Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you much.

For these your loving words. A third year man,

I came upon you fresh from nowhere;

This in itself a warranty for cold

And hard suspicion; but you received

Me with some warmth, and made me one of you,

Chaffed me, and sat on me, and lent me books.

And offered pipes, and made inquiries kind

About my sisters; and Time, who takes

Men kindly by the hand, made us warm friends,

And knit us in a love all brotherly.

_Many Voices_.--Yes, brothers! brothers! we are brothers all!

_A Voice_.--And sisters!

_Mr. Tom_.--I would say sisters too, but that I fear

My lady guests would think I did presume;

But yet I know, and knowing it am proud,

That most men here to-night would welcome all

The sweet girl-graduates that would fill the list

Did but the College Council set aside

A foolish prejudice, and let them in.

And now, I know a girl who long has worked

To pass the exams, take the proud degree

I hold to-day, and yet her petticoat

Forbade.

_Several Voices_.--Name! Name! A toast! A toast!

_Mr. Tom_.--I will not name her, gentlemen, but bring

Her to your presence, if you so incline;

First begging that you will not let surprise

Oust self-possession, for my friend's a girl

Of timid temper, though she's bold to act

If duty calls.

_Many Voices_.--Your friend! Your friend!

_Mr. Tom_.--I go to fetch her, gentlemen; dear ladies all,

I beg your suffrages of gentle eyes

And kindly smile to greet my guest.

[_Exit_ MR. TOM CHRISTOPHER.

* * * * *

SCENE 2.--_The same_.

_Enter_ MISS KATE BLOGGS _in full dinner toilet of Reseda silk,

and carrying a dandelion and lily bouquet_.

_Miss Blaggs_.--My cousin! oh, my cousin!

[_Rushes excitedly forward and falls into hysterics on_ Miss BLOGGS'

_neck. The company gather round in great surprise_.

_Miss B_.--Dear Orphea! Orphea, my dear! oh, water, gentlemen!

Lay her upon the couch. See! see! she gasps!

Orphea, dear girl!

[_The ladies are much alarmed, but Miss BLAGGS soon gives signs of

recovery, and sits up_.

_Orphea (in tears)_.--Oh, Kate! it struck me so to see you once

again as you were wont to be; those nasty ugly pants

forever gone, and you a girl again.

_Kate_.--Dear friends, you look surprised.

Pray Heaven you'll not look worse when you know all.

I am indeed a girl, though you have known

Me hitherto as Thomas Christopher.

Four years ago I passed the exams, for

Us women, at your University.

Once more I passed. But when again I would,

I stumbled for the teaching that is chained--

Like ancient scripture to the reading desk--

Within your College walls. No word of mine

Could move the flinty heads of College Council.

Order and discipline forbade, they said,

That women should sit-side by side with men

Within their walls. At church, or concert, or

At theatre, or ball, no separation's made

Of sexes. And so I, being a girl

Of firm and independent mind, resolved

To do as many a one beside has done

For lesser prize, and, as a man, sat at

The feet of our Gamaliels until I got

The learning that I love. That I may now

Look you all in the face without a blush, save--that

Which naturally comes at having thus

To avow my hardihood, is praise, I trow,

You will not think unworthy; and to me

It forms a soft remembrance that will ever dwell

Within my grateful heart.

Can you forgive me?

_Many Voices_.--We do, we must. All honour to the brave!

Speak for us, Biggs.

_Mr. Biggs_.--I cannot speak, except to ask the lady's pardon

For our rough ways.

_Kate_.--No; pardon me.

_Many Voices_.--No! no! we ask your pardon.

_Kate_.--If that, indeed, as I must need believe

From all your looks, you do not blame me much,

Endue me with a favour. It is this:--

Let every man and woman here to-night

Look out for those petitions that will soon

Be placed in many a store by those our friends

Who in this city form a ladies' club,

And each one sign. Nay more, to show you mean

What I, with swelling heart have often heard

You strongly urge, the rights of women to

The College privileges, get all your friends

To sign. Do what your judgment charges you

To help so good a cause, and let the lists

Of 1883 have no more names

Set by themselves as women. Let us go

In numbrous strength before the Parliament,

And ask our rights in such a stirring sort,

They shall be yielded. Then I shall know

Your brotherly and pleasant words mean faith,

And shall no more regret a daring act

That else will fail of reason.

May I thus trust?

_All_.--You may! You may.

_Kate_.--Then hands all round, my friends, till break of day.

* * * * *

FABLES:

ORIGINAL AND FROM THE FRENCH.

THE CHOICE.

As fragrant essences from summer flowers,

Steal, on aerial pinions, to the sense,

So, on the viewless wing of rumour, sped

A word that set the aviary on flame.

"To-morrow comes the Prince," it said, "to choose

A bird of gifts will grace the royal bower."

O then began a fluttering and a fume--

A judging each of all! Pert airs and speech

Flew thick as moulted feathers. Little heads

Were tossed in lofty pride, or in disdain

Were turned aside. For each bird deemed his own

The merits that would charm. One only sang

To-day his daily song, nor joined the crowd

In envious exultation. To him spoke

Another of his kind. "Vain one, refrain

That everlasting pipe, fit for a cage

Behind some cotter's lattice, where thy gray

And thickset form may shun the cultured eye.

A word of warning, too--hide from the Prince."

"Dear brother," cried the gray, "be not annoyed;

Who sees your elegance of form, and depth

Of perfect colour, ne'er will notice me."

The morrow came,--the Prince. Each bird essayed

To please the royal taste, and many a meed

Of praise was won and given--this for his hue;--

That for his elegance;--another for

His fascinating grace. Yet something lacked,

'Twas evident, and many an anxious glance

Betrayed the latent fear.

"Yon little bird

In quiet gray and green courts not my praise,

Yet should a singer be," exclaimed the Prince,

As with a critical and searching eye

He scanned the small competitors for choice.

Obedient to his governor, the bird

Poured forth his song, oblivious of the crowd

Of vain and envious round him, in whose eyes

He stood contemptible. The Prince, entranced,

Broke forth at length: "Nor hue, nor elegance,

Nor fascination, can outvie the gift

Of genius. My choice is made."

And to the great offence

Of one bright bird, at least, the humble gray

Became the royal treasure.

INSINCERITY.

Tired of the narrow limits her assigned,

Truth fled the earth; and men were fain to grope

In utter darkness. Blindly they blundered,

And were long distraught, till on the horizon rose

A luminosity, and in its midst

A form. They cried, "'Tis Truth! fair Truth returned!'

And though the light seemed dim, the form but faint

To that of other days, they worshipped it,

And all things went along much as at first.

Until, born none knew whence, a doubt arose;

Grew strong; and spake; and pondering, men began

To quest their goddess' claim. Then, too, was set

A secret watch, a covert test for proof;

And one fine day there rose a clamour, such

As cheated mobs will make, when cunning puts

A veto on their claim.

For this mob found that, in her stolen guise

Of softer beams, they had adored a cheat;

A make-believe; a lie.

Immense their rage! One aim inspired them all--

To punish. But while they swayed and tossed

In wrathful argument on just desert,

Fair Truth indeed appeared, clad in her robes

Of glorious majesty. "Desist, my friends,"

She cried; "the executioner condign

Of Insincerity, and your avenger,

Is Time, my faithful henchman."

THE TWO TREES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.

Two trees, amid whose leafy shade

The warbling birds their vigils paid,

Stood neighbours--each as noble tree

In height and girth as one might see.

The one, sequestered in the vale,

All sheltered from the boisterous gale,

Had passed his days in soft repose;

The other from the cliff arose,

And bore the brunt of stormy wind

That lashed him oft in frenzy blind.

A day there happed when from the north

Aquilon drave his forces forth,

And hurled them headlong on the rock

Where, proudly poised to meet the shock,

Our bold tree stood. In gallant might,

He took the gage of proffered fight,

And though in every fibre wrung,

Kept every fibre still upstrung.

"Thou tremblest!" cried the sheltered tree,

"Thine own the folly! Come to me.

Here no wild tempest rocks our boughs--

Scarce may it bend our haughty brows--

Scarce may a breeze our branches kiss--

From every harm a shelter this."

No word replied the storm-tried tree,

But, wrestling for the mastery,

He bowed and straightened, writhed and shook,

And firmer of the rock he took

A tightening clutch with grip of steel,

Nor once the storm-fiend made him reel;

And when his weary foe passed by,

Still towered he proudly to the sky.

Then through the vale the winged blast

For the first time in fury passed,

As through ripe grain the sickles go,

Widespread he scattered fear and woe;

Prone fell the tree--so safe before--

'Mid ruin dire, to rise no more.

He cannot fall who knows to fight

With stern adversity aright.

But soon is laid the victim low,

That knows not how to ward a blow.

FABLE AND TRUTH.

Simply attired in Nature's strictest garb,

Fair Truth emerged from out her sheltering well;

But Time so many of her charms had touched

That age and youth before her presence fled:

And no asylum showed an open door

Of welcome to the waif of shivering limb.

Sudden upon her sight a vision breaks--

Gay Fable richly robed, and pranked withal

In plumes and jewels--mostly false 'tis true,

But bright enough. "Ah, is it you, my friend?

How do?" quo' she, "but why upon the road.

"And all alone?"

"You see I freeze," says Truth,

"And yet of those who pass I but implore

A simple shelter, but I frighten them.

Alas! I see an aged woman gains

But small consideration!"

"Younger than I,"

Saith Fable, "are you? Yet I may aver,

Without conceit, that everywhere

I am received with joy. But Mistress Truth,

Why did you brave the light in such scant robe?

'Twas most ill-judged. Come, let's arrange for both,

Since the same end is aim for me as you;

Get 'neath my cloak, and we'll together walk.

Thus, for your sake, I shall not by the wise

Be buffeted; and for my sake, you shall

Be well received among the simpler sort.

Thus every one his proper taste may suit,

And by these means each shall her end attain,

Thanks to your sense, and my amusing speech.

And you will see, my sister, everywhere

We shall be well received, in company."--_Florian_.

THE CALIPH.

In ancient days the Caliph Almamon

A palace built in Bagdad, fairer far

Than was the vaunted house of Solomon.

The portico a hundred columns graced

Of purest alabaster. Gold and blue

And jasper formed the rich mosaic floor.

Ceiled with the fragrant cedar, suites of rooms

Displayed a wealth of sculpture; treasures rare

In art and nature vied; fair flowers and gems,

Perfumes and scented myrtles; verdure soft

And piercing lustre; past the embroidered couch

The gushing fountains rolled on dancing wave.

And beauty reigned o'er all.

Near this abode, but just beyond the gate,

A simple cottage stood, old and dilapidate,

The home of a poor weaver. There, content

With little gain procured by labour long,

Without a debt and thus beyond a care,

The old man lived, forgotten perhaps, but free.

His days all peaceful softly wore away

And he nor envied was, nor envying.

As hath been told, his small and mean retreat,

Just masked the palace gates. The Grand Vizier

Would pull it down, without formality

Of law, or word of grace. More just his lord

Commands to buy it first. To hear is to obey;

They seek the weaver's bearing bags of gold;

"These shalt thou have."

"No; keep your lordly sum,

My workshop yields my needs," responds the man,

"And for my house, I have no wish to sell;

Here was I born, and here my father died:

And here would I die too. The Caliph may,

Should he so will, force me to leave the place

And pull my cottage down, but should he so

Each day would find me seated on the stone

The last that's left, weeping my misery.

I know Almamon's heart; 'twill pity me."

This bold reply the Vizier's choler raised;

He would the rascal punish, and at once

Pull down the sorry hut. Not so the Caliph:

"No; while it stands my glory lives," saith he,

"My treasure shall be taxed to make it whole;

And of my reign it shall be monument;

For when my heirs shall this fair palace mark

They shall exclaim 'How great was Almamon!'

And when yon cottage 'Almamon was just!'"--_Florian_.

THE BLIND MAN AND THE PARALYTIC.

Kindly let us help each other,

Lighter will our burden lie,

For the good we do our brother

Is a solace pure and high,--

So Confucius to his people,

To his friends, the wise Chinese,

Oft affirmed, and to persuade them,

Told them stories such as these:--

In an Asiatic city

Dwelt two miserable men,--

Misery knows nor clime nor country,

Haunts alike the dome or den--

Blind the one, the other palsied,

Each so poor he prayed for death;

Yet he lived, his invocations

Seeming naught but wasted breath.

On his wretched mattress lying,

In the busy public square,

See the wasted paralytic

Suffering more that none doth care.

Butt for everybody's humour,

Gropes the blind his devious way,

Guide, nor staff, nor helper has he,

To supply the light's lost ray;

E'en a poor dog's willing service,

Love, and guidance are denied;

Till one day his groping finds him

By the paralytic's side.

There he hears the sufferer's moaning,

And his very soul is moved.

He's the truest sympathizer

Who, like sorrow, erst has proved.

"I have, sorrows, thou hast others,

Brother, let us join our woes,

And their rigours will be softened,"

Thus the blind began propose.

"Ah, my friend, thou little knowest

That a step I cannot take;

Thou art blind; what should we gain then

Of two burdens one to make?"

"Why, now, brother, see how lucky,

'Twixt us both is all we lack:

Thou hast eyes, be thou the guide then,

Thee I'll carry on my back;

Thus without unfriendly question

As to which bears heaviest load,

I will walk for thee, and thou, friend,

Choose for me the smoothest road."--_Florian_.

DEATH.

On a set day, fell Death, queen of the world,--

In hell assembled all her fearful court

That 'mongst them she might choose a minister

Would render her estate more flourishing.

As candidates for the dread office came,

With measured strides, from Tartarus' lowest depth,

Fever, and Gout, and War--a trio

To whose gifts all earth and hell bare witness--

The queen reception gave them.

Then came Plague,

And none his claims and merit might deny.

Still, when a doctor paid his visit, too,

Opinion wavered which would win the day.

Nor could Queen Death herself at once decide.

But when the Vices came her choice fell quick--

She chose Excess.--_Florian_.

THE HOUSE OF CARDS.

How softly glide Philemon's happy days

Within the cot where once his father dwelt

Peaceful as he!

Here with his gentle wife and sturdy boys,

In rural quietude, he tills his farm;

Gathers his harvest, or his garden tends.

Here sweet domestic joys together shared

Crown every evening, whether 'neath the trees

The smiling summer draws the table forth:

Or round the cosy hearth the winter cold

With crackling faggot blazing makes their cheer.

Here do the careful parents ever give

Counsels of virtuous knowledge to their sons.

The father with a story points his speech,

The mother with a kiss.

Of different tastes, the boys: the elder one,

Grave, studious, reads and thinks the livelong day;

The younger, sprightly, gay, and graceful, too,

Leaps, laughs incessant, and in games delights.

One evening, as their wont, at father's side,

And near a table where their mother sewed,

The elder Rollin read. The younger played:

Small care had he for Rome's ambitious deeds,

Or Parthian prowess; his whole mind was set

To build a house of cards, his wit sharp-drawn

To fit the corners neatly. He, nor speaks,

Nor scarce may breathe, so great his anxious care.

But suddenly the reader's voice is heard

Self-interrupting: "Papa, pray tell me why

Some warriors are called Conquerors, and some

The Founders, of an Empire? What doth make

The points of difference in the simple terms?"

In careful thought the father sought reply:

When, radiant with delight, his younger son,

After so much endeavour, having placed

His second stage, cries out, "Tis done!" But he,

The elder, harshly chides his brother's glee,

Strikes the frail tenement, and so destroys

The fruits of patient toil: The younger weeps:

And then the father thus: "Oh, my dear son,

Thy brother is the Founder of a realm,

Thou the fell Conqueror."--_Florian_.

THE BULLFINCH AND THE RAVEN.

In separate cages hung, the same kind roof

Sheltered a bullfinch and a raven bold,

The one with song mellifluous charmed the house;

The other's cries incessant wearied all.

With loud hoarse voice he screamed for bread and meat

And cheese; the which they quickly brought, in hope

To stop thereby his brawling tongue.

The finch

Did nought but sing, and never bawled and begged;

So they forgot him. Oft the pretty bird

Nor food nor water had, and they who praised

His song the loudest took the smallest care

To fill his fount. And yet they loved him well,

But thought not on his needs.

One day they found him dead within his cage,

"Ah, horror! and he sang so well!" they cry,

"What can it be he died of? 'Tis, indeed

A dreadful pity."

The raven still screamed on, and nothing lacked.--_Florian_.

THE WASP AND THE BEE.

Within the chalice of a flower

A bee "improved the shining hour,"

Whom, when she saw, a wasp draw near,

And sought to gain the fair one's ear,

With tender praise: "Oh, sister mine--

(For love and trust that name entwine)"

But ill it pleased the haughty bee,

Who answered proudly: "Sisters!--we?

Since when, I pray you, dates the tie?"

With angry warmth the wasp's reply

Came fuming forth--"Life-long, indeed.

In semblant points all eyes may read

The fact. Observe me if you please.

Your wings, are they not such as these?

Mine is your figure, mine your waist,

And if you used with proper taste

Your sting, as I do, we agree

In that."

"'Tis true," replies the bee,

"Each bears a weapon; in its use

The difference lies. For fierce abuse,

And insolence your dart doth serve.

Mine gives the chastisement that these deserve,

And while you irritate your dearest friend;

I take good heed myself, but to defend."--_Florian_.

TRANSLATIONS

A MEMORY OF THE HEROES OF 1760.

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.

O ye who tread with heedless feet

This dust once laid with heroes' blood,

A moment turn your backward glance

To years of dread inquietude:

When wars disturbed our peaceful fields;

When mothers drew a sobbing breath;

When the great river's hilly marge

Resounded with a cry of death.

Then, full of fire, the heroes sprang

To save our heritage and laws.

They conquered! 'twas a holiday.

Alas, the last in such a cause!

Bloody and shamed, the flag of France

Perforce recrossed the widening seas;

The sad Canadian mourned his hopes,

And cherished bitter memories.

But noble he despite his woe!

Before his lords he proudly bends,

Like some tall oak that storms may shake,

And bow, but never, never rend.

And oft he dreams a happy dream,

And sees a flag, with lilies sown,

Come back whence comes the rising Sun,

To float o'er landscapes all his own.

Oh when the south wind on its wings

Bears to his ear strange sounds afar,

To him they seem the solemn chant

Of triumph after clam'rous war.

Those echoes weird of gallant strife

E'en stir the coffined warrior-dead,

As stirs a nation's inmost heart

At some proud pageant nobly led.

O France, once more 'neath Western skies,

We see thy standards proudly wave!

And Mexico's high ramparts fall

Before thy squadrons, true and brave.

Peace shalt thou to the land restore;

For fetters shalt give back the crown;

And with thy shining sword shalt hurl

The base usurper from the throne.

Hear ye, how in their ancient urns

The ashes of our heroes wake?

Thus greet they ye, fair sons of morn,

For this their solemn silence break.

They greet ye, whose renown hath reached

Past star on star to highest heaven!

Ye on whose brow their halo sits,

To ye their altar shall be given!

Arise, immortal phalanxes,

Who fell upon a glorious day!

Your century of mourning weeds

Posterity would take away.

Arise and see! our woods and fields

No longer nourish enemies!

Whom once ye fought are brothers now,

One law around us throws its ties.

And who shall dare our homesteads touch,

That for our heritage ye gave:--

And who shall drive us from the shores

To which your blood the verdure gave?--

E'en they shall find the oppressed will rise

More powerful for the foe withstood;

And ever for such heinous crime

Shall pay the forfeit with their blood.

Ye, our defenders in the past,

Your names are still a household word!

In childhood's ear old age recounts

The toils your hardy youth endured.

And on the field of victory

Hath gratitude your memory graved!

In during brass your story lives

A glory to the centuries saved!

THE SONG OF THE CANADIAN VOLTIGEURS.

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.

Our country insulted

Demands quick redress.

To arms, Voltigeurs!

To the struggle we press.

From vict'ry to vict'ry,

Brave, righteous, and just,

Ours the mem'ries that cling to

Our forefathers' dust.

Defend we our farm-lands,

Our half-crumbled walls!

Defend we our sweethearts,

Our hearths and our halls!

Our dear native tongue,

Our faith keep we free!

Defend we our life,

For a people are we!

No rulers know we, save

Our time-honoured laws!

And woe to the nation

That sneers at our cause.

Our fields and our furrows,

Our woods and our streams,

Should their columns invade,

Shall entomb their vain dreams!

To our foes, the perfidious,

Be war to the knife.

Intrepid, yet duteous,

We leap to the strife.

More terrible shewing

In danger's red hour;

We know to avenge,

And unbroken our power.

List the thunderous roar

As the shot rushes by!

To our war-song heroic,

The chorus of joy.

At the ring of the musket

To the battle we fly;

Come! come to the field,

See us conquer or die.